Home Sweet Home

Summer just arrives. I hear the sounds of bird chirping outside the windows and feel the warm lights hugging over the neighborhood. Lying in my bed with weights on my eyelids, I thought to myself, “May be I should go for a walk today to feel the sun. Hear that helps with dopamine and happiness and all that shit they keep talking about.” 

I didn’t sleep well last night. Actually, I haven’t had a well-rested night for the longest time. Outwardly, keeping up with fake smiles and small talks here and there help me maintain an overall somewhat normal impression in the presence of others. It’s easy for the most part and I’m good at it if I want to be. “Fake it till you make it”, they say,… but isn’t that Imposter Syndrome in some shape or form? I often think that’s such a flawed statement because it doesn’t actually solve the root of any issue. It’s the outdated perception of mental health issues, in my case, people tend to promote because it seems to be the easier route - just sweep it under the rug and forget that you have dust to vacuum. Next thing you know, dust bunnies turn into respiratory issues that get you hospitalized. 

Stepping outside of the house, I take the deepest breath with every step, trying to clear my head of the suffocating dust bunnies image I cooked up. The neighborhood has this quiet and peaceful aura in the morning. I see a young girl walking her little Maltese dog here, an old couple going on brisk walks there, the smell of briskets in the air from a nearby Korean fusion barbecue joint I always recommend to people if they pass by the area. Cozy, quiet, and peaceful. I try to take it all in on my walk, embracing the simplest of joy, although oftentimes it is the simplest joy that have me emotionally tip-toeing on eggshells. 

Over the course of the past year, what I was struggling with takes the form of my previous confidant, who I no longer talk to. He was a couple of years younger than me, but has always been a very emotionally mature person. Our connection was special, but complicated, to say the least. When I say I have never met anyone as kind as him, I mean it with my every word, and I have met enough people in this world to know what kindness and generosity look like. Selfless kindness is indeed a very attractive thing. Like how most friendship started, we were acquaintances to one another, that was until one day I broke down crying in front of him just from hearing “How have you been doing?” in the most sincere way, not in the small-talk ingenuine way I often hear people ask. Our conversations to come were philosophical, analytical, and full of depth. Among an ocean of colder, disinterested and restrained interactions I had with others, what we had together was the lighthouse in that ocean - bright and warm. The particular way he perceives the world appeals and complements my train of thoughts. It was rare for us to reach to a stopping point in a discussion, but when we did, we thoroughly enjoyed those long pauses and just being in the moment together. We shared the simplest joy with one another, and somehow, they became a deep ocean of memories I could never forget. Other than the way we were, we also had the same experience growing up. We both understood the struggle and fun of learning another language and to use it on a daily basis instead of our own mother tongue. We both recognized the challenges to face with immigration and with building a life starting from almost the bottom in this strange land. Socially, we often get overlooked because we were not the loudest in the room and we might not always get heard with patience and without judgment, but what we did have to say can speak volume at times. To me, our shared cultural connection not only reminds us of where we came from but also strengthens our bond to the motherland despite the far distance. 

I really mourn our relationship. It was quiet, innocent and beautiful. Ever since I moved away to a new city, we still kept in touch and got on calls daily. Distance did not seem to separate us. We could share even the most mundane things with each other and had a good laugh still. We sent pictures of food we made, movies we watched, and stayed on video calls until one of us fell asleep in bed on the other side of the screen. Life was simple and good in its own way, with just us two. Even when I made new friends in the city, I still tried my best to spend time with him. Even when I started dating someone else exclusively, I still wanted to talk to him without much distance, although there were times where I caught myself thinking if I should be doing this. I was questioning boundaries. The friendship we had was so pure and innocent, that I did not know what the right thing to do was. He was the only tangible connection I had left with my own culture and heritage. He was the only one who could understand jokes I made in our mother tongue. I felt more connected and as Vietnamese as ever watching a trendy rap show with him while eating hotpot together during the quarantine period. He was the first person in a long time with whom I felt soulfully naked, yet safe, with. But no, I did not see him in that light. It was a different kind of love. When I thought of him, I felt a sense of longing, an overwhelming admiration, a cozy safe space, and he did too. “Home sweet home,” he often referred me as. 

Sadly, since life took a different course for us, we realized we were too dependent on one another that the idea of having a life outside of us was scary and unfamiliar. One summer day, after a couple days not talking to each other, he sent me a very long message saying that he no longer wanted to continue talking to me. He wasn’t sure if what we had was friendship or something much bigger, but he said hearing me talk about someone else was painful for him. He mourned what we had before and did not want anything else to come in between that. I took it in, and even though it was hard to hear, I knew in my heart it was perhaps the right thing, the healthier thing for us at least, to be apart. He confided in me that I was his weakness, and I acknowledged the same. Achilles’ heels. I found myself often thought of our relationship as two DNA strands binding together. Now I started to see it break in front of my eyes. I tried to appear calm while texting back to him, hiding away tears that had been rolling down my face since the conversation started. I thought of how I always feel so emotionally vulnerable with him, now more than ever, and how he would undoubtedly see through all. There was only so much we could say through texts. I found it hard to put things into words. I have never felt a love that was so deep and impactful, and how I wish I could have reciprocated. That kind of love deserves the world, and I knew I was unworthy of it. Did I love him? I did, and still do, but it is a different love. Can I save this relationship? I can, but that means I have to lie to my heart a little. I don’t want to do a disservice to my heart and to his. It was clear what the answer should be in my head, but I could not bear to hurt him any further. There were million things I wanted to say, but I wrote none. I sit there in silence on my bed, the one that he helped build for me when I first moved here. I saw the desk he put together for me so I could sit and work. I remember the time that I had food poisoning and he spent the whole day making sure my fever went down and that I could eat good food without throwing up. I thought of all the things he ever did for me. Why did it never occurred to me that that was the most selfless love I possibly could receive in this lifetime? I looked around and see his footprints everywhere I turned my eyes to. “Why did you even love me?” I texted. “I only took. When did I do anything for you?” He replied almost instantly, “You don’t have to do anything for me to love you. You were simply you.” We left the conversation open as we both did not know what to say, or rather, we knew but just didn’t want to verbalize it. To say it all was to close the door on all hopes, and I guess slim hope was that comfort we both wanted at the moment. That was the first moment in a long time we were hesitant with each other. We wished each other goodnights like we normally do, but this time, I went to bed with the heaviest heart. 

Like I said, we were each other’s weakness. We still sent quick messages every now and then. We still gave quick updates on life like we used to. I smiled at his accomplishments and he did at mine. One day, we decided that we would continue to be friends and maintained our connection. It seemed like an easy, comfortable solution. We really just didn’t want to fall out of each other’s life. We never got on calls anymore though… Hearing voices made it seem too real and brought up too many things unsaid. We each knew, in our head, that this was not right. We knew this was us being weak. The procrastination to face the truth simply seemed so comfortable of an idea. It wasn’t quite the same, I knew. I could see barriers and walls started building between us. I saw him further than ever, even though he was one text away. Shallow water versus the deepest ocean. Knowing what it could have been and what it was then was immensely painful. 

In the background, life still went on. Before I knew it, my birthday rolled around. I had always been sensitive on my birthday ever since I moved here. Friends were away for Christmas break. It was hard to celebrate by yourself. I missed my birthdays back home. It was always around the perfect time when I was surrounded by friends in class, had birthday cakes, and showered with gifts. I had since felt more alone than ever around this time of the year. This year in particular too because we actually hadn’t talked for a good bit. I guess we were doing good in that sense. Close to my birthday, I received a package in the mailbox. It says that it was from him, sent from Seattle. “Oh I guess he officially moved there now…” I realized and felt disappointed that he didn’t tell me. I opened up the package, and saw a small little jasmine perfume roll-on. It was the exact roll-on I had been wanting to find for the longest time but had given up. It was by a very niche, local European brand. I was gifted the perfume one time by a German friend in college, and I remember mentioning to him that I could not find this brand in the US exactly once a couple years ago. Even I forgot that I used to like it so much. Inside the package, there was a long letter. It was a goodbye letter. I broke down in tears. Seeing his handwriting was the closest connection I had had with him over the past couple months, which felt like years. Trembling with every breath, I read the letter through and through. He said he wanted to celebrate my birthday, but couldn’t now that we were where we were. He wanted to make sure to let me know that he didn’t and would never forget about me. I would always be his “Home sweet home”, even if he might not be mine. He truly loved me, and would fly to me in a heartbeat, “like a stupid, desperate moth to a flame”, he said, the moment I reach out to him again. There were a million things I wanted to say. I wanted to hear his warm, loving voice one last time before we truly ended our connection, whatever it was. I wanted to hug him one last time. I wanted to love him, and perhaps I did. Perhaps it wasn’t enough. But I loved him enough to let him go, to make things easier for us, and to do the right thing by us. So, I texted him one last time, thanking him for the letter and kindness he had shown me. I wanted to face my final fear of losing him, potentially for good. We texted our goodbyes, wishing each other well, and promised each other to stay true to who we were, always. After all, may be there was a version of us somewhere that we rode off into the sunset happily ever after. In this version, we happened to be apart, but we did love each other. We promised to live our best life in our next chapter, even without the other person in it. We came to accept that this could be the ending, but could also be a start of something bigger in store for us. If life meant for us to be together, perhaps that would be our next chance. We decided to never close the door, as we simple were each other’s “Home Sweet Home.” 

This was just six months ago. I haven’t heard from him since. We got on our separate lives, and look back on our story with fondness and heavy heart. I will say that some days are harder than the rest. Sometimes I dream of us, together and happy, like old times. It has been conflicting between encountering glimpses of happiness and instinctively wanting to share that with him, only to realize I should not. I put all our memories inside a little box and put it away. Sometimes, I miss us, open the box, and cry while reminiscing the good times. A scar that is still bleeding if I rub on it. I am doing a better job on not opening the box every so often, but I don’t want to forget about him just yet, or ever. I am funny like that! Sometimes I still see his shadow where I go - next to my car seat, in my apartment, in our favorite restaurant in the city, in the market aisle looking at our favorite ice cream brand,.... I find myself going to those places less and less overtime. All part of the healing process. May be one day I’ll have the courage to face that again. But I am genuinely happy that we did the right thing by us. I am happy that we both get the closure we deserve. I don’t doubt that our lives are still parallel to one another. I am grateful for what we had together and will forever hold it close to my heart. 

Reaching the end of the nearby trail, I check the phone’s clock and it’s already noon! My phone was buzzing from people making different plans. I take the deepest breath for some fresh air, rush back to my apartment and take a good shower. I look at myself in the mirror, and see that my eyes are a little red and puffy. I put some eye drops in to help ease the discomfort, put some clothes and sunscreen on, and head out to brunch with some friends. It was a good Saturday.